Derek Henkel - The Tender Fire.txt Page 6

"Let me see..." Hmm, I wonder why this tastes so weird."

  "I don't want to eat it."

  "That's fine. I'll make you something else."

  "Twinkies!"

  "We don't have any of those."

  "Yes we do, Mommy bought some the other day."

  "I haven't seen them."

  She stands, and pulls her chair over in front of the cupboards and steps up, reaching to the back and removing a box of Twinkies from behind a stack of canned food.

  She steps down, hands it to me.

  "See?"

  I speak absently, telling her to sit back down, trying to figure out why my wife is hiding food.

  "Good morning."

  My wife bends, kisses our daughter’s forehead, looks at her breakfast, freezes for a moment, then moves to get a cup of coffee, avoiding eye contact.

  "Want a Twinkie?"

  She ignores my question and sips at her cup, facing the sink.

  "I can not believe it's already the start of the third week... Back to school night is tomorrow."

  She speaks softly, as if talking to herself, and turns to face me. She looks fragile, close to tears, but as I move towards her she moves away and stands behind the little one, who looks up and chews slowly.

  "Finish up, Honey. It is almost time to go."

  She does not finish her coffee, but quickly sets the cup on the sink board, then turns to leave.

  "You're not bringing them up are you?"

  "No." She snaps, going into the living room.

  The little one chews quickly, gulping her milk. She puts up her dish, turns to leave.

  "How about a kiss?"

  I lean over, turning a cheek to her, which she wetly smacks.

  "Be a good girl today."

  "I will."

  My wife gets a firm grip on a satchel full of papers, pulls her purse over her shoulder. She avoids looking at me.

  She steps out the door with our daughter close on her heels.

  I look out the front window, watching them make their way across the street to the school.

  My wife told me that when she was in High School she had a problem with eating, and then vomiting. She said there was tension between her brother, her family, and herself. Her brother was failing in school, and she said her parents expected her to be the good one, and that the pressure got to her.

  She said she started eating junk food while she did her homework. After awhile, she didn’t really want to eat junk food, but still did, and she started sticking her finger down her throat to bring up what she ate.

  Apparently her parents were not much help. Their solution to the problem was to tell her to talk to a school counselor, which she did. Luckily, the counselor referred her to twelve step meetings dealing with what she was doing. She said she went to these meetings until she graduated from High School. Once she started college, and was away from home she didn’t feel the need to go to any more meetings.

  I guess I was out of line to ask if she was bringing up the Twinkies. It’s just that this has been an unusually stressful year. I do worry about both her and the little one. I will have to tell her this tonight.

  I have been keeping busy the last few weeks with home repairs. Well, it is really more like thinking about, and planning home repairs.

  I have decided to work on the outside first while the weather is still nice. The first thing I am going to do is tear up the back driveway and plant grass to finish out the rear lawn. I was not keen on such major renovation at first, but once I saw how badly the cement was cracked I decided that expanding the backyard was indeed a good idea.

  Now all I have to do is bring myself to actually begin.

  The inside of the house only needs a few things done. My wife wants to put up new wallpaper, and paint both the bedrooms.

  There are a few people outside. I pass them and smile. They nod.

  Suddenly a strange sensation overtakes me.

  I feel I am being followed.

  I stop and turn, looking down the street. Less than a block away the feeling knots my gut.

  Instead of turning around I quicken my pace, stepping into an entranceway, pressing myself back against the door in fear.

  My heart beats hard and fast while my right hand makes a fist.

  I wait a few seconds, then peek out, looking around at the empty street behind me.

  What's the deal?

  I know someone was close on my trail.

  Across the street the owner of the taxidermy shop opens the door to his business, stretches in the sun, and yawns. He looks over, spotting me, and after giving me a funny look, waves.

  I wave back. The panic subsides enough for me to step across the main street and say hi. I look both ways, putting on a thick mask of calm assurance in an effort to hide the absolute terror I felt moments ago.

  This man is my new friend.

  "Howdy neighbor."

  "How are ya?"

  "Can't complain. What were you doin' there?"

  I smile.

  "It's really too weird for words."

  "You look like you saw a ghost."

  I laugh.

  "Could have been... I don't know what it was, but it felt like someone was following me."

  "Sounds like you could use a beer."

  "Actually that is the last thing I need."

  "Well, how about keeping me company while I wet my whistle?"

  "Okay. I need to go to the post office first."

  I'm standing in line at the post office trying to sort out the strange feeling I just had. I didn't see anyone following me. Maybe it was another shadowman. No. Hopefully that strangeness has finally passed. My head has actually been feeling much better since the move.

  "I'm tellin' y'all, I've been flyin' jets for the Air National Guard over twenty years and never in my life did I imagine I'd have to eject from my plane because wild pigs would run in front of me on take-off."

  Two military types sit at one of the side tables nursing beers, speaking to everyone. My friend is at the bar. I sit down a stool away, giving my attention to the visitors from the armed services.

  "What happened?"

  The pilot takes a sip, resumes his story.

  "I was rollin' down the runway, saw a brown blur, felt a bump, and the next thing I know the fighter is weavin' off the runway and I'm havin' to eject. Four wild pigs destroyed my plane."

  Everyone chuckles, which seems to be the response the man wanted, because after the laughter subsides he returns talking to his buddy.

  "So how are you liking living here so far?" my friend asks me.

  "I like it a lot."

  The bartender, a middle-aged woman wearing thick make-up asks, "What can I get you?"

  "A cup of coffee."

  She leaves, pours me a cup. My friend watches her the whole time. She sets the cup in front of me. He smiles at her as she walks away.

  "Something has her riled. I'm trying to guess what."

  "Maybe she doesn't like soldiers."

  "Nah. Every woman is crazy about a uniform, whether they admit it or not."

  I shake my head, and drink my coffee while he talks, nursing his beer along.

  After a second cup of coffee I need to use the bathroom, and ask my friend its whereabouts.

  "You'll have to use the lady's. The men's has been broken almost a week."

  I look at him blankly.

  "I'm not foolin'. Hey, isn't the men's toilet broken?"

  "Sure is."

  "See?"

  I follow the directions and find myself standing in the other side's territory. I lock the door, and after doing my duty, scan the walls for graffiti.

  "Took y' long enough. What were you doin' puttin' up your number?"

  The patrons laugh at my friend's comment. I smile. It is obvious he is starting to get sloshed.

  Not wanting to be alone, I stay, enduring everyone's hackneyed reflections about life.

  "Life's just like a job. It's crummy sometimes, but you have to keep work
ing, punching that time card, even put in overtime when it's necessary."

  "I think it's like sports. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, but you can't do either if you don't play."

  My friend is the only one who offers any kind of interesting analogy.

  "Life's like a big dead ram ready to be stuffed."

  "How's that?" Someone asks.

  "It's hard to explain... what about you? Put in your two cents worth."

  I answer.

  "Man, I really haven't a clue."

  "Honey, we need to talk about this."

  "We need to talk about this? Maybe you feel the need, but don't speak for me. I don't want to talk right now!"

  I let my wife be for about an hour. I spend time with our daughter, allowing her to beat me in several games of checkers.

  My wife is sitting in the recliner staring intensely at the television. I sit on the sofa, studying her.

  "Stop looking at me."

  I ignore her command.

  "I said stop looking at me."

  "I heard you."

  She cocks her jaw, tilts her head, and taps a fisted hand on the chair's arm.

  I narrow my eyes, focusing my stare.

  "Goddamn you! All I want to do is be left alone to watch a little TV and you can't even allow me that! I work hard. I deserve some time to myself!"

  "I deserve to have my wife talk to me."

  She swivels the chair, faces me.

  "Don't take that tone with me."

  I keep steady eye contact.

  "Honey, I love you. What's wrong?"

  She laughs.

  "You wouldn't understand."

  "Are you feeling like you have to be perfect again?"

  She stands, moving to leave.

  I spring to my feet, standing in her way. She tries to step around. I grab her arm.

  "Let go of me!" she shrieks.

  This scares and angers me. I let go of her arm and she hits me on the chest as a fierce sound leaves from deep within her throat.

  She goes to the kitchen. I step back in a daze.

  My heart is pounding. Everything spins until the sound of sobbing registers.

  I step into the doorway.

  "I do feel like I have to be perfect. I feel like I have to be super good."

  I keep my distance.

  "You're the one who wanted to talk! Say something!"

  I shake my head in an effort to snap myself from the spell.

  "Why do you feel that way?"

  "Because you're still not working. I'm the only one working."

  I step closer.

  "I’m not your brother."

  She gives me an angry, unbelieving look. After deliberating she lets me come close.

  I cup her head on my shoulder. She begins to cry again.

  It is Sunday and I decide to take the family on a drive. For once it is a mutually enjoyed outing. Our daughter looks out her window, humming. My wife lets the breeze blow her hair.

  "Lookit."

  The little one leans over the front seat, pointing down the road.

  "There is something we never saw in the city."

  A slow-moving herd of cattle makes its way towards us. In a manner of a minute and a half we are completely overtaken, surrounded by a large cluster of livestock on their way somewhere. I stop the car. The little one moves around excitedly, taking in the scene.

  A spooked cow chases her calf away from the front of our bumper and she jaunts away. My wife reaches over, turns off the keys, and scoots close, hugging me, looking at the bovine passing.

  The men on horseback at the rear of the herd ruin the perfect moment for me by not returning my wave as they trot by. This goes unnoticed by my daughter, but my wife sees it and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  "Don't let it get to you, cowboy."

  Twenty days into October and there is snow.

  "I can't believe it's almost time for the holidays." I say, looking out a frosted bedroom window, as my wife pulls the covers up, rolls away.

  "I can."

  When I was a kid I loved wintertime. I liked shopping with my parents at night downtown among the lights and decorations, gazing at the mechanical window displays in the department stores. My favorite place was the outdoor ice-skating rink. I don't remember skating on it, but I remember watching people step and glide, step and glide.

  Winter lost a lot of its luster for me once I had to be out and about in it. Putting on tire chains and trudging through snow banks two feet deep has gone a long way towards dimming my view of the year's final season.

  But now it's kind of odd. I'm standing downstairs looking out the front window studying the girls' tracks that follow our sidewalk across the street and over the school's lawn, and that contentment I used to feel with winter's arrival seems to be returning. It is pretty. The blanketing snow gives a kind of unity to everything.

  At the film counter of the general store a shrunken old man holds himself steady against the glass display cabinet, peering down at the selection of instant cameras. The man is missing his right foot, and in order to speak he presses against a piece of thin plastic protruding from under his flannel shirt. Sort of like a speaker vest I guess.

  The man's voice is froggy, mechanical sounding. He has to keep his phrases short because the volume fades after several words. He pauses, takes a breath, and then presses on his throat and croaks.

  I step near, smiling to him and the young man behind the counter. I make an effort not to shy away from the man, but also try not to appear condescending. It is awkward, hard to explain, but it's like having someone that is extremely ugly talking to you and maintaining eye contact.

  The man presses his neck, thanks the cashier, then hobbles off, giving me a wink in passing. I watch him leave, then step to the counter. The attendant looks in the direction of the man's exit. I wait for his attention.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," he says, almost startled.

  "That's all right."

  "You know how he got that way?"

  I shake my head.

  "He was using this weird tangle of wires and a long steel rod, giving the ground shocks to get worms to surface and electrocuted himself."

  "What?"

  "Yeah. You've been here a couple of months now haven't you?"

  "Uh huh."

  "Man, I can't believe you haven't seen him before."

  The knight of the sorrowful figure becomes the knight of the lions as snow powders a late Saturday morning.

  I recently resumed reading 'Don Quioxte.' A decent amount of time has passed since I was last involved with it, but like any relationship that sustains (and I do establish relationships with the books I read) effort was required to continue. I remember why I enjoy the book so much. Besides the flashes of insight, it is also very funny.

  We pull into my friend's driveway with slight apprehension and a full pan of peanut brittle. My wife is not sure of what to make of him, but was glad to accept he and his wife's invitation for dinner.

  My friend and his wife walk through the front door and wait with their arms folded against the chill.

  "Here we are."

  The little one bounces forward. She leans against her mother's seat to peer through the front window at our hosts. I turn to her, giving a reassuring smile, and see the back of my wife's head as she exits. Her daughter follows her.

  "Hello."

  "Howdy. How are you?"

  "Can't complain."

  We shake hands.

  "This here's the ball and chain."

  My wife moves over and smiles at her.

  "And what's your name pretty girl?"

  The little one gets a small grip on her mother's coat and looks at our hostess with wide, silent, studying eyes.

  I answer for her, and my friend's wife replies.

  "A pretty name for a pretty girl."

  "You've met my wife haven't you?"